Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 4

  Given the narrowness of the lane that ran through Little Dipperton, it was almost impossible to park in the street. There was one spot in front of the post office, a handful of spaces at the Hare & Hounds pub farther along and a few in the church car park, but that was about it.

  “I always park there,” said Violet. “His lordship told me it was mine.”

  I suddenly knew whose car it was—Harry’s friend Max Carmichael’s mother. “Do you mean Pippa?”

  “Whatever her name is,” Violet spat.

  “I’m sure she didn’t realize it’s your spot. She doesn’t live here.”

  “Oh yes she does!” Violet declared. “She just moved in and, what’s more, she’s trying to steal my customers!”

  This really surprised me. I’d only spoken to Pippa outside the school a week ago when I’d gone to pick up Harry and she had not mentioned anything about moving into the village.

  Edith hit my horn, startling Violet so much she screamed.

  “I’m sorry, Violet, you’ll have to move out of the way,” I said. “I’m taking the dowager countess to Totnes railway station and she cannot miss her train.”

  Violet’s eyes widened to saucers. “Lady Edith is in your car?” If I’d mentioned I was carrying the Queen of England she couldn’t be more astonished—or worried. “Of course. I’m sorry. Please tell her I’m sorry. If her ladyship misses her train and it’s my fault—”

  Violet promptly thrust her Morris Minor into the wrong gear and kangarooed down the street at five miles an hour. As we followed her, twice Edith leant over and hit the horn, and twice Violet stalled the car.

  “God help us,” murmured Edith.

  Finally, Violet pulled into a farm entrance on the far side of the churchyard. She waved as we passed on by.

  I caught a glimpse of scaffolding surrounding the skeletal frame of a large stone barn.

  I looked to Edith in surprise. “What’s happening there?”

  “That’s the Carew boundary,” said Edith. “Their land stretches for five miles north from here.”

  The reality of neighbor fighting against neighbor during the English Civil War struck home for the first time. “I had no idea you lived so close together.”

  “In fact, we’re going to be even closer,” Edith went on. “That pile of rubble will soon be Aubrey’s new abode for his fresh young bride.”

  Of course, Lavinia had mentioned her father had remarried.

  As we sped toward Totnes Edith seem to relish giving me the details of Lavinia’s family.

  “Personally, I quite like Aubrey,” she said. “He’s our Justice of the Peace, which has come in handy on quite a few occasions. How he gave birth to Lavinia—who is as thick as two short planks—and that twit son of his, Piers, is beyond my comprehension. But what possessed Aubrey to get married again at his age and move into a barn is embarrassing. He’s obviously having an end-of-life crisis of sorts.”

  “Aubrey is giving up Carew Court?”

  “Piers has been running it for a number of years—Rupert can’t stand him—but it seems this new wife of his prefers an unostentatious life.”

  We turned into Totnes railway station with five minutes to spare. Flyers for the Skirmish were posted at the ticket office and along the platform railings.

  Fortunately, Edith had her railway ticket. She refused help with her suitcase. “Frightfully good of you to run me here.”

  “It was no problem,” I said. “I’ve got a valuation in Staverton at noon—an antique doll and a nice change from swords and helmets that have been dug out of the attic.”

  “Or dug out of the ground according to Rupert,” said Edith. “Extraordinary that the main gauche discovered in that grave this morning bore the Honeychurch crest.” Edith frowned. “It would have been such a valuable weapon, and one not easily discarded.”

  “I thought the same.”

  Edith shrugged. “I suppose we’ll never know who the woman was and I suspect it was no one of any importance.”

  “You sound so sure,” I said.

  “We can account for all our ancestors, Katherine,” said Edith with pride. “They’re buried in the family mausoleum in St. Mary’s church and recorded in the Parish registers.”

  “Parish registers?”

  “The Devon and Cornwall Parish registers have recorded every birth, marriage and death since 1538. Quite remarkable.”

  “Are they still inside the church?” I knew Mum would love to take a look for her research.

  Edith shrugged. “If they were, they’d be in the Parish chest in the vestry. Since the vicar died back in 2000 we rarely use the church—other than for funerals. God knows who will mow the churchyard now that Fred Jarvis has gone.”

  I wondered whether to mention Muriel’s financial situation, but the Penzance to Paddington train was announced over the loudspeaker and the moment had gone.

  “I’ll pick you up on Sunday evening,” I said. “Let me know if anything changes.”

  And with that, Edith headed for the platform carrying her case as if it weighed ounces and not pounds and I set off for my rendezvous at the Sea Trout Inn in Staverton.

  I’d never visited Staverton before. It was tucked out of the way down tiny winding roads. Its main claim to fame was the South Devon Railway that ran a steam train from Totnes to Buckfastleigh—mostly along the left bank of the spectacular River Dart—and a medieval bridge that was built in 1413. It was supposedly one of the best examples of medieval bridges in the country. The more I explored the South Hams, the more gems I kept finding. My London life seemed so far away, but I found I didn’t regret the move one bit.

  The only blot on the horizon was that my new business was taking far too long to get going. I’d arrogantly assumed that my mini-celebrity status as former host of Fakes & Treasures would have had people flooding to my door, but that had not been the case at all. Muriel was right. No one knew where to find me.

  But the phone call I had received yesterday about valuing an antique French doll sounded very promising.

  Something told me that today my luck was going to change.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh no, Mr. Brown, this is a genuine Jumeau Triste Bébé. A child doll.” I was thrilled for him. I had lost count of the number of fake French dolls that had been manufactured in the 1960s and had crossed my path over the years. This doll was exquisite and the outfit she was wearing was the original nineteenth-century cream dress and bonnet, in near-mint condition.

  At this point in the proceedings, the client would usually demand to know how much the doll was worth, but Mr. Brown just sat there, fingering his tumbler of whiskey. Judging by his threadbare herringbone sports jacket and tattered beige corduroy trousers, I suspected he needed the money.

  “I can’t believe the Jumeau has been hiding in your cupboard for so many years,” I went on.

  Mr. Brown nodded but continued to stare into his glass—obviously the doll must have meant a great deal to his wife, who I assumed had just passed away.

  Despite his untidy appearance, Mr. Brown was a very handsome man in his early seventies with a mane of silver hair that swept naturally off his high forehead. His horn-rimmed spectacles gave him an almost scholarly appearance.

  “Are you familiar with antique dolls?” When Mr. Brown didn’t answer, I plunged on. “She’s French and was made around 1880 by Pierre Jumeau.” I traced my fingers over the bisque head. “Do you see the delicately shaded cheeks and eyelids and the blue paperweight eyes and closed mouth? A closed-mouth bisque-head doll can be twice as valuable as comparable open-mouth dolls.” I looked up to see his reaction, but still, he said nothing. “Her wig is mohair—a tiny bit matted, but that is far more desirable to a collector than a replacement wig.” I turned the doll over. “See here? At the nape of the neck is the Depose Tete Jumeau, the blue stamp that says ‘Jumeau Medaille D’or Paris.’” I beamed. “She’s stunning.”

  But again, there was no reaction from Mr. Brown.

 
I brought out my iPhone, opened the camera app and snapped a quick photo.

  “What are you doing?” he said sharply.

  “I always take a photograph to include in my valuation.” Gently, I laid the Jumeau onto the white fluffy hand towel and put her back into the Black & Decker power drill box—rather a bizarre choice of packaging, but I’d seen worse.

  “You might want to store her a bit more carefully,” I said. “A lot of collectors wrap the head in a baby diaper to protect it.”

  We lapsed into an awkward silence. I took a sip of Perrier water and, as I waited for Mr. Brown to comment, took in my surroundings.

  The lounge at the Sea Trout Inn was unusually quiet for a Thursday lunchtime. We were alone in the farthest corner of the bar sitting in one of the eighteenth-century high-backed church settles.

  Other than a battered old gray Volvo and a brand-new red BMW convertible, the car park had been empty. I assumed the Volvo belonged to Mr. Brown because the only other people in the bar were a middle-aged couple who looked as if they might be having an illicit tryst in the corner. She was crying.

  Claimed to date back to the fifteenth century, the décor was typical of a Devonshire pub with its low, black roof beams and enormous inglenook fireplaces. Dotted about were the usual prints of dead game, horse brasses and gin traps.

  One thing I had noticed since I started my mobile valuation service was the number of farmers and local fishermen wanting to sell furniture—some of it really good antiques—paintings and other items that had been passed down from generation to generation to subsidize their income. It made me sad.

  It was hard enough seeing huge country estates gradually fade away, but farming was at the heart of the rural communities. Even in the nine months since I had moved from London to the West Country, I’d seen an increase in farmers selling off herds of cows because they just weren’t making any money. The empty byres and cowsheds were then snapped up by city folk—like myself—to convert into second homes or holiday cottages. This, in turn, sent house prices up, often making it almost impossible for first-time buyers to purchase a home in the village where they had grown up. Even worse, those very villages were losing their soul, because half the year the second homes and holiday cottages stood empty.

  Mr. Brown cleared his throat and finally spoke. “And you are absolutely certain this French doll is genuine and not just a very good reproduction?”

  “I’m one hundred percent positive. I would put a value of at least ten thousand pounds—”

  “Ten thousand pounds!”

  “More, if you have the original box at home somewhere—”

  “Did you want to order lunch?” A young woman dressed in black trousers and a black sweater handed us two menus. Her nametag said: Jen.

  Jen glanced into the open Black & Decker box. “What a pretty doll.”

  Mr. Brown swept the box off the table with such speed that it nearly overturned. He put it at the end of the settle. “No. No lunch,” he said rudely.

  “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?” Jen looked mortified. “It’s my first day.”

  “Not at all.” I smiled and took a menu. “I’d love to order. Why don’t you come back in a minute?”

  Jen gave me a grateful smile and left.

  Mr. Brown got to his feet. “I must go.”

  “Where would you like me to send the valuation and invoice?”

  “What?”

  “An address? Unless you prefer to receive it via e-mail?”

  “I don’t want one,” he snapped. “I don’t need one.”

  His mood change was so extreme I was completely taken aback. “If you change your mind—”

  “No, I won’t.” He seemed to find his manners. “I mean, no thank you—here—” Mr. Brown plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and tossed some crumpled notes onto the table, “For your time,” and turned away to leave.

  “Wait!” I exclaimed. “Don’t forget the doll!”

  With a grunt, he snatched the box up and hurried out of the bar, leaving me more than a little bewildered. I picked up the banknotes and felt miffed.

  Twenty pounds! What a cheek!

  “Excuse me, but aren’t you Kat Stanford?” Jen materialized by my side. “It’s your hair. I’ve always wanted hair like yours.” She gave a shy smile.

  My long, curly hair earned me the nickname Rapunzel and I suppose it was a trademark of sorts.

  “My mum use to love Fakes & Treasures,” Jen went on. “She doesn’t like the new host at all. We read in the local paper that you were living in Little Dipperton. She’s always talked about getting my great-grandmother’s armoire valued. She said it was Victorian.”

  I retrieved a business card and handed it to her. “I’d be delighted. Just ask her to call me and tell her that we met.”

  Jen turned pink with pleasure. “Have you decided what to eat?”

  Despite my resolution to have a salad, I ordered a Ploughman’s lunch. I’d been consciously trying to lose the ten pounds I’d gained since moving to Devon, but today I just couldn’t resist the homemade crusty bread or the homemade apple chutney. And who could possibly refuse the local Elmhirst cheese from Sharpham Vineyard?

  As I waited for my order, I couldn’t stop thinking about my strange encounter with Mr. Brown.

  I ate my lunch in silence, scanning the daily newspapers that were scattered about for customers to read. The news was full of sensationalism—awful bombings in the Middle East, cyber-hacking, political corruption, domestic violence, an escaped prisoner who masterminded an intricate car theft ring on the run, an advertisement from the adult online dating site, Ashley Madison: “Life is short! Have an affair!” All the ugliness and sordidness of life was in these pages.

  I much preferred the local weekly newspaper the Dipperton Deal with its earnest stories of village gossip, shoplifting and other petty crimes, amateur dramatics, obituaries and golden wedding anniversaries. My personal favorite was Dog-of-the-Week. But most of this edition was full of the upcoming Skirmish.

  A one-page ad made me laugh out loud.

  WANTED!

  DEAD BODIES FOR THE SKIRMISH!

  MISSED OUT ON PLAYING A ZOMBIE FOR THE WALKING DEAD?

  HERE IS YOUR CHANCE TO GET NOTICED.

  (GROANING IS OPTIONAL.)

  CALL PIERS CAREW ON 0787 2340172.

  Piers Carew was Lavinia’s brother. What had Edith called him? A twit. He certainly seemed to have a sense of humor.

  My old life in London seemed to belong to another person. If someone had told me a year ago that I would be single again and living in a cottage on a country estate in rural Devon, I would have laughed. Mum always told me that no one knows what’s around the corner—and she was right. Life can change in a heartbeat.

  I checked my watch. I’d promised my mother that I would help her with the costumes this afternoon but hoped there would still be time to squeeze in a ride on Duchess, a dapple-gray mare that Edith had told me I could ride “anytime” and one I had come to regard as my own. Thanking Jen and giving her a generous tip, I headed for home.

  It was when I was rounding a hairpin bend just a mile from the neighboring village of East Chiveley that I came across the accident.

  An old gray Volvo had ploughed headfirst into a hawthorn hedge. I was certain it was Mr. Brown’s, but I couldn’t see if he was trapped because the entire front of the Volvo had been swallowed up by vegetation.

  I jumped out.

  “Mr. Brown!” I shouted, but there was no answering cry. I skirted along the hedge hunting for the five-bar gate that would give me access into the field beyond. Scrambling over—with great difficulty in my skirt—I managed to find my way back to the front of his car.

  But when I got there, the Volvo was empty.

  Mr. Brown had vanished.

  Chapter Six

  The field was deserted. There wasn’t even a cow in sight. I scanned the horizon, but other than a large country house perched on the top of a hill in the dis
tance, there was no sign of Mr. Brown.

  Looking on the bright side, he obviously hadn’t been hurt and was most likely making his way on foot for help. I pulled out my mobile. There was no signal—no surprises there.

  I looked at the Volvo. The front headlight was smashed and there was a nasty scrape of green paint all down one side. The narrow lanes in Devon were notorious for close encounters—made all the more hair-raising by the speed at which the locals drove because they knew every inch of the countryside.

  It was only when I happened to glimpse inside the passenger seat that I noticed the Black & Decker box. I couldn’t believe it! Mr. Brown had completely forgotten to take the doll—and, even more alarming, the car was unlocked! There was no way I was going to leave her there. Grabbing the box, I returned to my car.

  I had no idea where Mr. Brown lived, but at least I had his phone number logged into my mobile. I made it a habit to always keep a record of all new clients. Mr. Brown had called from a landline, not a mobile. My hunch that he must have walked to East Chiveley for help was probably correct. It was unlikely that I’d catch up with him, but even so, as I set off again, I kept my eyes peeled.

  Finally, I got a signal at the top of the next hill and pulled into yet another gateway.

  After five rings, an answering machine picked up. It was a woman’s cheerful voice that threw me slightly.

  I was in a bit of a dilemma. Mr. Brown had acted so strangely I didn’t feel I should mention the doll on the answer machine.

  “This is Kat Stanford,” I said. “I have something of Mr. Brown’s that he left in his car. Please can he call me so we can make arrangements to return it? Thank you.”

  Satisfied, I disconnected the line, confident that if I didn’t see him walking along the road he would call me.

  As I rounded another bend, I thought I saw him. A man was walking slowly along the road with a donkey jacket slung over his shoulders. He pressed himself against the hedge to allow me to pass.